


Digging for Kryptonite

by chucks_prophet



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Absent John Winchester, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angry Castiel, Angst, Best Friends, Childhood Friends, Comforting Castiel, Conflicted Dean, Cuddling & Snuggling, Explicit Language, Father's Day, Hopeful Ending, I'm Sorry Dean, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, Kissing, M/M, Neck Kissing, Sad Dean, Some Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-03
Updated: 2016-06-03
Packaged: 2018-07-11 21:57:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7072051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chucks_prophet/pseuds/chucks_prophet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His eyes have always been green, like kryptonite, always dragging people into trouble rather than away from it. People like his mother, his brother, his father, Cas…</p><p>And in a way, Dean figures, that makes him Cas’s weakness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Digging for Kryptonite

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not sure where this came from - the dialogue just sort of came to me last night, and then I wrote the rest today. Quick and dirty.
> 
> Title inspired by yet another line from one of my favorites: "Superman (It's Not Easy)" by Five For Fighting.

"Dean, you can't keep making life decisions over a speed round of Rock, Paper, Scissors."

"Hey, this was _your_ idea, Kojak. _You_ said if I win I'm entitled to do what I want. Newsflash: I won."

Sam rolls his eyes around the length of the living room. "I didn't think you'd _actually_ win."

"Thanks for the morale boost."

"Well, I mean, really, Dean, when did you stop playing scissors?"

"When I realized I could _crush_ you with rock.”

"Dean, just call him. Please."

Instead of responding, Dean swipes the keys to his Impala and heads for the exit. Sam's quick on his feet for a scrawny sophomore, breaking up the reunion between Dean and the door. "Sam, get out of my way."

Sam shakes his head, straps his words to the tight of his jaw. “Dean, don’t—”

“What, Sam?” Dean growls, eyes bulging. “Huh? Go on, spit it out. Don’t make the same mistake _Dad_ did?” When Sam doesn’t say anything, Dean grabs his coat and mumbles, “Don’t worry, I won’t be gone forever.”

***

"I’m sorry, but I disagree. You shouldn't have to call him if you don't want to."

"Thank you!"

"After everything he put you through—"

"Exactly!"

"— _you_ should be the one getting recognized, you've been more of a father to Sam than he ever has."

"Damn right!"

"He doesn't deserve you. You're smart, selfless, caring, compassionate..."

"... Yeah,” Dean murmurs. The tingling in his throat turns into a sting and a sob rings his neck like a noose. The next thing he knows, Cas’s room looks like a scene from _The Abyss,_ and a pair of strong arms pull him in like the jaws of a sea creature and pull them both further onto the soft mattress.

“Oh, Dean,” he hears Cas mourn, feels his hand laying tentatively on the back of his messy head, "I know I'm speaking out of turn, but fuck him. Fuck him for making you feel this way. Fuck him for bringing you here at 2 in the fucking morning to cry on my new sweater."

Muffled against the dusty warehouse smell, Dean says against the navy blue pullover, "It's a nice sweater."

A small smile crosses Cas’s face without looking both ways. It’s a sad smile, the kind you get when you win a participation ribbon, or get slimed at the Kid’s Choice Awards. "I'm sorry, Dean. I just hate seeing you like this. I wish I could go to fucking Build-A-Bear and make you a new father."

"You're comfy enough,” Dean comments through actual cottonmouth before lifting his head. "You'd do that, though? You'd take me to Build-A-Bear?"

"You haven't been to fucking _Build-A-Bear_?!" Dean shakes his head meekly and manages a laugh through a face glazed in snot and tears. "Oh my God. That just isn't acceptable."

"So you'll take me to fucking Build-A-Bear?"

"Hell _yeah_ I'll take you to fucking Build-A-Bear!” Cas exclaims, pulling him back with slender hands on Dean’s shoulders. “I'll even treat you to a Turkdunken at the Biggerson's across the street if you'll have me."

"Mm, cool," Dean says, nosing the collar of Castiel's sweater again. "But for now, can we just lie here?"

“Of course,” Cas replies, wrapping his arms around Dean again.

He should be suffocating with the lack of personal space, but Dean breathes for the first time that day.

Underneath the freshly pressed cotton, Cas smells of lavender soap and a hint of aftershave—only a hint, because there’s really only a stubble scratching Dean’s temple, but Cas has insisted since they were twelve that he has s _omething_ there. The guy’s always felt emasculate compared to Dean, who, when he was twelve, had a garden spouting weeds and a voice that sounded like he was blowing through a tuba.

But the thing is, Cas doesn’t need to be macho, or whatever. Not with those intense blue eyes that have always drawn Dean in like a fly into a flowtron. His eyes have always been green, like kryptonite, always dragging people into trouble rather than away from it. People like his mother, his brother, his father, _Cas_ …

And in a way, Dean figures, that makes him Cas’s weakness.

Suppressing a sniffle, Dean sits up on Cas’s lap until there’s a good foot or two between them. Perplexed, Cas wiggles a little to sit up too, concern slowly morphing his face into a rigid, wrinkled thing.

Neither of them speak. Neither of them need to. Their brashly beating hearts speak for them.

That, and the little nod Cas gives him when Dean’s kryptonite falls on his lips, and Dean dives in like a hurricane tearing through Smallville, breathing in the rich, wet soil inside Cas’s mouth.

Cas kisses back softly, slowly, fingers like bandages fixed around the warm skin underneath Dean’s shirt, afraid it might sting more if Cas pulls back. When he doesn’t, Dean licks into him, only his tongue clashes with Cas’s chin instead. Unrelenting, Dean closes his mouth there before dropping his head underneath Cas’s jaw and repeating the action. Only then does Cas secure his grip on the base of Dean’s head, breath coming out in short puffs of air, like the stall of an old engine after the key’s cranked.

"Cas?" he mumbles against the crook of his neck.

" _Hmmph?"_

"How long has that potty mouth of yours been plugged up?"

"Mmm," he repeats as Dean detaches himself in favor of Cas’s arms again. "Eight years, give or take."

"...Eight years? Isn’t that how long we've known each other?"

"Yeah."

"Wow."

"I didn’t think about it until the moment I saw you,” Cas says, yawning and squeezing Dean a little tighter, “then I knew I was screwed to high Heaven."

Dean tries to laugh, but it comes out a sigh, “I’m sorry I’m so fucked up, Cas. I wish I could be a better friend. To you, and Sammy, and—”

Soft snoring interrupts Dean’s epilogue. Dean laughs softly, gazing down at a sleeping Cas before rolling onto the other side of the bed. Moonlight spills through the silver voile curtains, washing the blush from his face.

He _can_ be better. He knows he can.

As he falls asleep next to that thought, and his best friend, he thinks maybe he’s not too far away from it.

***

The phone picks up after two rings—about how long it took Dean to finally win Rock, Paper, Scissors.

“ _Hello?”_ the gruff, sleep-laden voice on the other end asks.

“Hey, Dad,” he says over the passing chill of the morning air, “Happy Father’s Day.”

 

***


End file.
